Breaking the Cycle: Healing in Motherhood

Becoming a mother cracked me open in ways I never expected. It unearthed wounds I didn’t even know existed, patterns I never questioned, and habits I don’t want to pass on. It made me face parts of myself that I had buried deep, forcing me to reckon with the echoes of my own childhood.

I don’t write this as someone who has it all figured out. I’m no expert, and most days, I don’t feel confident in this journey. But I do know this: I have to keep trying. I have to keep showing up. For myself. For my husband. For my children. Because the weight of unhealed pain should not be theirs to carry.

Healing isn’t linear. It’s messy, exhausting, and at times, downright painful. It requires me to sit with the discomfort of my past, to acknowledge the ways it shaped me, and to actively choose a different path. The hardest part about mothering isn’t the sleepless nights or the endless demands—it’s healing my own wounds while holding space for my children, ensuring I don’t place my burdens on their small shoulders. My triggers are mine to carry and mine to heal. And yet, it is the greatest act of love I can offer them: a mother who is trying, every single day, to be better than she was yesterday.

I grew up with a father battling drug addiction, a man who himself was raised in an environment of abuse and alcoholism. He carried his wounds into fatherhood, just as his parents did before him. I know what it’s like to grow up in the shadow of pain that isn’t yours but still somehow becomes part of you. And then there was the loss of my mother at a young age, a void that has shaped so much of who I am. Her absence left questions that will never have answers, a longing that will never quite settle. These experiences shaped me, but they do not define the kind of mother I am determined to be.

I don’t want to be the victim of my past, nor do I want to paint myself as some hero rising above. I just want to be real—real about the struggle, the effort, and the daily choice to break cycles.

Some days, I get it right. I respond with patience instead of reactivity. I pause before letting frustration take the lead. I remind myself that my children are not responsible for my pain. Other days, I fail. I snap. I retreat. I feel the guilt settle in my bones. But I keep coming back. I keep doing the work, because that’s what healing demands. That’s what love demands.

I’m writing this for anyone who feels the weight of their past creeping into their present. For the mother who worries she is failing. For the parent who is trying to break cycles while learning what it means to be whole. You are not alone. We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to keep trying.